SPN Drabbles
by xxCerezasxx
Summary: Random collection of drabbles that vary in word length. Assorted pairings. Dean/Alastair, Dean/Uriel, Dean/Castiel, Ruby/Lilith, Gen. Newest drabble is gen. Dean comes back from hell obsessed with sharpening knives.
1. He Tastes Like You Only Sweeter

**Disclaimer:Don't own**

**A/N: Just a collection of the drabbles I've written over the months, some don't really count as drabbles but my definition is flexible.**

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"Castiel has a weakness, he _likes_ you." Uriel walks a slow, predatory circle around him. "I can't imagine why." Uriel studies him up and down, eyes on the curve of his ass, the flat expanse of his stomach, the tensing of muscles in his jaw. He's being sized up by an angel, and it feels like Uriel can analyze his very soul, spot all the dark places inside him.

"It's the face. Who couldn't like this face?" In hell his face was cherished, something undeniably beautiful, and Alastair had moaned it to him while he fucked his mouth, came hot onto his cheeks and forehead, smeared him wet with come and blood.

"I think we both know who likes it Dean. He's trying to find you as we speak." The amusement in Uriel's eyes doesn't reach his mouth, instead it gleams and sparkles in his irises. "You shouldn't keep secrets from your brother."

"Honesty's overrated."

"It is to you mud monkeys. Sure you extol the values in the Bible, the rules my father gave you, but your kind are nothing more than disobedient teenagers. Wild, violent, horny monkeys." He can almost see the venom dripping from Uriel's mouth, congealing in a puddle on the floor. "It's a wonder Castiel is so enamored with you."

"He's not…he's not in love with me." Cas is an angel, not a teenage girl with big, love filled eyes.

"Maybe he isn't." Uriel shrugs his shoulders, makes an ambiguous noise with a click of his teeth. "He's certainly closer to you than he should be."

"Can you blame him?" He tries to laugh but his laugh is muffled by Uriel's mouth, brushed aside with a wet sweep of tongue. Oh God Uriel tastes like Alastair, strong and hot against his lips, probing and pushing, ravaging the damp flesh behind his teeth, the slickness of his cheeks and tongue. He can't quite register that this is Uriel kissing him, a friggin' angel of the Lord, but one large, rough hand curls around the base of his neck, pressing him forward, so hard his and Uriel's front teeth smash together. A surprised, fucking unmanly whimper breaks free from somewhere and Uriel's chuckle vibrates down the span of his throat.

"Dean?" He casts a glance at the door, where Castiel stands with a look of horror on his face, a deep shimmer of betrayal in those round blue eyes. Fuck maybe Cas really is enamored with him and before he can attempt to speak around Uriel's tongue Castiel vanishes with the sound of the bottom of a trench coat fluttering in the wind.

"Hm." Uriel wipes a trail of saliva off his chin after they break apart. "You even taste filthy."

Dean throws up when he's alone; his insides trembling while guilty disgust pounds rapidly in his heart.


	2. Do What You Want

**Disclaimer: Still don't own**

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"Gonna torture me angel? Huh, string me up and gut me like a fish?" Alastair spits and hisses at Castiel while he draws a devil's trap on the cement in white chalk. He marks each line carefully, his hand trembling with the effort, eyes fixed on the ground, each symbol must be _perfect_ and he writes them lovingly. "I'd love to see you try. You all are just a bunch of feathered pussies."

"You will be silent in the presence of angels of the Lord." Uriel snarls, backhanding Alastair so viciously he can hear the crack of bones, the splinter and creak of them beneath the demon's borrowed skin. He wants to remind Uriel to use restraint but he can't bring himself to look at Uriel. Each time he does he envisions Uriel's hands on the side of Dean's face and the back of his neck, ravaging Dean Winchester's mouth with his tongue, their teeth colliding in the intimacy of it, the warm, forbidden contact of sin. Dean is _his_ charge, his soul, the body he remade from the dust of the earth, the molecules of the air, constructed fresh from grace and light and love. Dean is his and Uriel has soiled him, tainted him, claimed him and the bitterness of Uriel's betrayal burns at the pit of Castiel's stomach, an unsettling, too hot sensation.

"I guess you're the bad cop then? Are you two going to um, work me over?" Alastair grins at Uriel, blood staining the front of his teeth, gleaming red across them in the dim light. "I promise it won't be easy."

"I have no desire to torture a piece of filth like you." Uriel slowly wipes the knuckles he used to strike Alastair with on the side of his suit before he blows across them casually, ridding himself of the demon's physical essence; the minute particles of yellow sulfur that dance on the current of Uriel's breath. "You're not worth my time."

"You're right about that." Alastair licks a trace of blood from his lip, a hum of satisfaction low in this throat. "I'm very curious to see what you're going to do to me you know. I've never been a guest of the lord before. He provides crappy accommodations." Alastair throws his back and laughs, a laugh Castiel knows, the underlying tone of sadism that blooms in it. He has heard the laugh in Dean's dreams, as Dean chokes and gurgles on his own blood, the collapsed cartilage of his trachea, gasping while Alastair _laughs_. If Castiel were ever going to feel hate it would be for this demon, this demon who broke a righteous man to pieces, and has left him irrevocably shattered, without a vital fragment of his soul. "So, who is going to do the honors? An archangel perhaps? No, of course not, that's too messy, it's too _uncivilized_. You angels can't possibly understand the fine art of torture, there's a certain finesse to it. You have to know just where to poke and prod." Fresh blood spurts between Alastair's lips as he talks, and once again he likes it away, collecting the crimson splashes with his tongue. Castiel has each one of Dean's memories and this is yet another snapshot, except Alastair liked to lap Dean's blood away, lick and leave trails of clean, slippery skin; spell out words across Dean's blood covered body.

"Do you want to know who is coming here for you?" Uriel sneers and Alastair leers back, their eyes locked and battling, and neither will back down, but amusement frolics in the dark abyss of Alastair's pupils. This is only a game to him, demons are games and tricks and fun, while angels are seriousness and responsibly, the weight of the work of god on their shoulders, making the feathers of their wings sag.

"Do tell, I'm a big demon, I can handle it."

"Dean Winchester."

Alastair laughs again, an impossibly inhuman sound, evil incarnate, damned and dirty to the very core.

"Oh yes. I like you angel, I _like_ you. My Deano is coming for a visit." If Alastair's hands were free, Castiel is sure they would clap together in delight. "He's your little secret weapon isn't he? Your version of the a-bomb? Well, I'll tell you a secret." Alastair smiles wide. "I built that bomb, and some additional assembly is required, batteries not included."

"We shall see." Uriel stands tall, unmoved by Alastair's words, Alastair who is a father of tricks and lies and sins.

"You put such faith in him, my little boy, my Dean. I put faith in him first angel, he's _mine_, and I don't share."

"You're wrong." The chalk drops to his feet and he is consumed, burning alive with _anger_, righteous, angelic fury, his vessel's veins pulsing. "Dean Winchester is not yours."

"Oh, I get it. I getcha." Alastair winks at him; a parody of platonic affection. "You dirty angel. You _want_ him." Alastair chuckles, and Castiel can smell the blood and sulfur on his breath. "Have you had him yet? Hm? You made him moan? Fucked him like the slut he is? His thighs spread _so_ easy, they part like water, and when he lets you slip between them, there's no sweeter place in the world. I've fucked his ass until he couldn't walk, fucked him hard and the whole time he was begging for it." Alastair snickers and Castiel wants to make him _hurt_. "He has the lips of an angel, he does, my Dean, such pretty, pretty lips, especially when they're stretched around my cock, swollen and shiny. You know what that feels like angel? To take his lip between your teeth and gnaw on it while he writhes?" Alastair waits for him to answer and he looks to Uriel. Uriel is impassive, consummate in his stoicism, and Castiel's soul unclenches in relief. Uriel knows nothing of what Alastair speaks; Uriel didn't _touch_ Dean in that way. "No, you don't, but you big guy?" Alastair cocks his head at Uriel, eyes glittering in their malice. "You know, I can see it. I can smell him on you. I bet you gave it to him good in that body of yours, fucked him sloppy."

"I kissed him, I tasted his filth." Uriel spits, reaches out and wraps his hand delicately around Alastair's throat. "It was purely out of curiosity. I have no interest in a demon's pitiful leftovers. Castiel, let's go." Uriel gestures for him with two fingers, and obediently he follows, seething silently; seething at Uriel, because malevolence is merely Alastair's nature, but Uriel is a messenger of the Lord, and there is no excuse.

"Yes, do go, please. Bring Dean here. I'm can't wait to see him."


	3. Demonic Little Girls

**Disclaimer: Don't own**

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Lilith's hotel room smells of death and smoke, the decaying flesh of blood drained babies, so, so sweet in the darkness, shadows curling over half of Lilith's face. Lilith sleeps on a bed with red silk sheets stained with the blood of infants, crimson smeared tiny fingerprints where Lilith lets the children flail and cry.

"There you are." Lilith balances a baby on her lap, a small, bald thing with big dark eyes, tiny blue veins visible underneath its scalp. "We've been waiting for you, haven't we sweetheart?" Lilith touches her nose to the baby's, making it coo and giggle, little hands reaching out for Lilith's face. "You hungry Ruby?" Lilith nibbles playfully on the child's toes, trails her tongue across the soft, un-calloused feet.

"Starving, and I can't get the taste of Sam out of my mouth. Ugh, he eats too much salad. I can practically feel the lettuce on my tongue. Would it kill the guy to eat more carbs?" She smells like Sam too, sweat and sex, his awful aftershave, bargain price deodorant.

"Is everything still on track?" Lilith holds the baby over a porcelain bowl with one hand, a blade in the other.

"In two days Lucifer walks free." The cuts on her arms itch as the skin knits itself back together, flesh reforming over the slanted lines down the inside of her forearm.

"Good." Lilith draws the knife across the baby's throat, blood cascading down in torrents, the patter of salt and iron infused rain, red collecting in the bottom of the bowl, rising until it is at the rim, the surface quivering as the mattress moves, as Lilith dumps the tiny body over the edge of the bed. "I think we might have to toast to Sam Winchester." Lilith dips two cups into the blood, maroon dribbling over the edges of the gold.

"To Sam Winchester." She agrees, holding her cup high, blood running down her arm, warm and slick against her skin. "The biggest tool in existence and oblivious agent of hell." Their glasses clink and she swallows the blood down, relishes in the sweetness of youth and life cut off far too early, the innocence and salt of a precious baby's blood, pure and clean as snow on a mountain top.

"Tell me again" Lilith laughs, licking blood from her upper lip. "about Sam's stupidity."

"He really has no clue." Ruby grins, spreading her meatsuit's cheek muscles wide, elated in the depths of her deception, fucking giddy with it, blood buzzing with Sam's gullibility. "All I have to do is bat my eyelashes and bleed a little and he's a puppy lapping out of the palm of my hand. Not literally the palm of my hand. Oh god and when we fuck? It's like being with Vlad the Impaler, except Sam uses his cock instead of a stake. I swear he's going to dick me to death with that thing." Lilith laughs again, a high, content sound, a purr and rumble low in her throat, tongue working eagerly over her fingertips, sucking away the blood so her fingers leave her mouth clean. "The worst is afterwards. He talks; he'd talk for hours if I let him. You should hear him. 'Dean doesn't understand me, Dean's weak, I'm the only one strong enough and it's such a burden. Dean doesn't trust me; Dean doesn't love me, Dean this, Dean that, blah blah blah'. All the talking makes me want to kill myself. Those two should just buttfuck and make up if you ask me."

"You know Dean saves that privilege for Alastair only." Lilith tosses her cup away and it clatters to the floor, comes to a stop against the limp and cooling corpse of their dinner. "You're such a trooper though, putting up with Sam's whining and cock." Lilith moves closer, stolen blonde hair hanging down into her face.

"Sometimes I think his emo girliness is rubbing off on me."

"Only two more days." Lilith sighs, rolling over onto Ruby so they're face to face, her meatsuit's hair tickling Ruby's cheeks. "Then the world begins." Lilith kisses her and the kiss is sulfur and heat, hell inside Lilith's mouth, on the tongue pushing its way through her lips. They're both hell, insignificant and fragmented pieces of it; children of the darkness, made of sulfur and evil; sugar, spice, and everything that isn't nice; thank hell for demonic little girls. The kiss tastes like sulfur, with ash and blood for added flavor, human saliva mingling between their mouths. Ruby likes Lilith's current body the most because it has hair she can tangle her fingers in, a great rack and long, long legs that she used to look for when she was human herself. It reminds her of the body Lilith possessed when they first met, when Ruby was a damned and dirty soul, a faithful witch worshipping a demonic master.

"And you die." She says, tilting her head back so Lilith can lick at the blood drying beneath her chin, slide her tongue across the skin and leave it slick and shiny, slimy and pink tinged spit. "Come to think of it, I'll probably die too. Sam'll be pissed."

"To our impending deaths then." Lilith's eyes roll from blue to white and Ruby lets her own blink to black, the heat and smoke that is her twisted, dark and evil soul rising up to press just behind the surface of the meatsuit's eyes, like motor oil across glass.

"If you asked" She starts, slipping Sam's giant shirt over her shoulders. "I'd give up Lucifer for you. I'd give up the future of the world."

"So sentimental of you Ruby." Lilith clicks her tongue against her teeth, hands heavy, unyielding metal where they push her thighs apart, as automated as the hands of a clock, all force and motion.

"I told you, Sam's pussiness is contagious."

"Funny." Lilith sinks down, seduces her much like before, only now it's not with the promise of eternity, unbelievable power, Lucifer on a black winged horse's back; it's with the heat and pleasure of it, fire and brimstone, the overwhelming atmosphere of death.

"So" Lilith says later as they lay together, Ruby in the bed of her master, the vision of the future dancing before their eyes, through the white of Lilith's and her black. "That's the way the world ends." Lilith smiles, gathering the few remaining droplets of baby blood on her thumb. Ruby thinks of the poem Sam recited to her, paper crinkling as he turned the pages in his book.

"Want to bang until we whimper?"

Lilith laughs, white eyes changing back to blue.


	4. DeanAlastair Untitled

**Disclaimer:Don't own**

**Written for a drabble contest on lj.**

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Stab, cut, bite, bleed.

Hell is a monotonous routine of violence and dismemberment, coordinated to a mundane orchestra of screams.

Bite, stab, cut, bleed.

But Dean livens up the boredom with his pretty, the unmistakable carnality of his wicked grin, the tortured anguish of his victims. Dean's the spice to the proverbial stew of Alastair's life, and after he leaves there's only bland.

Cut, bite, stab, bleed.

So when Lilith sends for him, he drops his blade and smiles, blood dripping from his teeth. His mouth tastes sweet of salt and fresh redemption.

I'm coming Deano.

Bleed, bleed, bleed, bleed.


	5. Rewind and Delete

**Disclaimer:Don't own**

**AU of "The Song Remains the Same" in S5.**

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His mom hits the windshield with a thud, followed by the thrum of vibrating glass.

Dean makes a wet, choking noise, and his chest caves in and crumples like paper, crushed by something Sam can't see. He spits up blood, coughs once and shudders.

"Dean!" He can't run to him, so he watches Dean hack up something pink and mushy, shredded pieces of his own lungs.

His mom is pale, her face five times too white. She slides a hand down slowly, presses it between her legs, and her fingers come away red, smeared and shiny.

_No_.

Dean vomits something black and putrid, while blood stains their mother's jeans maroon in a lazy, seeping ooze.

"Dean." It's like flickering back through photographs and home movies, scenes snatched and deleted, pictures altered, all his memories photo shopped.

He's three and he's watching Dean sleep in the darkness, one of his hands curled around Dean's ear, playing with it. So far back him and—

There's gun oil spilled in his lap and dad shakes him awake.

"Wake up Sam." Dad's starting to look old; his hair is graying past the temples. His dad's been at this almost twenty-seven years. "You can sleep in the car; I think we have a lead on what killed your mother."

He tucks the amulet he never gave to his dad beneath his shirt as he heads out the door.


	6. Gen Untitled

**Disclaimer:Don't own**

**Warnings: None really, maybe a bit of language, this is pretty tame.**

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Sam tries to pretend things haven't changed, that the world isn't going to end, that angels aren't walking the earth to wreak righteous havoc, banish the demonic back to where they first spawned. For the most part, though, he swallows down the panic of dread and malice that rises bitter as bile in his throat, and says, calmly, desperately, determinedly that Dean is still his brother, that he hasn't changed. This is what he tells himself, but the lies taste like sulfur and blood burnt a hundred times over.

"I'm gonna sharpen the knives." Dean announces it like the news is something new. Dean sharpens the knives every night, goes through their collection one by one, starting with the larger ones and working his way down.

"Yeah." He says, staring at the ceiling, thinking inexplicably of silver blades and blood, red smeared across his brother's fingertips, the glint of a handle poking out of Dean's thigh. Dean didn't notice that either, he never would have if the blood hadn't soaked his jeans all down the leg. "Go ahead."

He hates watching Dean while he does it, yet he can never seem to look away.

Dean looks so _peaceful_ while he sharpens, polishes until the metal gleams, sharp and strong and deadly enough to cut through muscle and bone. He doesn't know why Dean insists on keeping them in such great condition when they favor guns. Dean always took care of them, of course, but his favorite colt has been replaced with a small, delicate knife, a blade no more than three inches long. It's an old razor, one he only ever remembers their father shaving with once, an antique that's useless on a hunt. Dean spends fifteen minutes using the sharpening steel, relaxed and pleased looking; rubbing the steel together to a rhythm only he can feel. "You want to go out and eat?" They don't go out that often anymore. Diners are few and far between, they eat from paper bags stained dark at the bottoms with grease, food wrapped in foil meant to keep in the heat.

"Soon." Dean isn't really listening, waves his hand in Sam's direction, holds the razor up to the light. The surface shines perfect and oiled, reflective as a mirror. Dean touches the blade to his palm, frowning, grinds the steel together. Sam's never seen anything sharper and the thought that Dean has is too horrifying to consider.

Dean stares at the razor like he's contemplating something and absently, the way people bite their nails or pick their nose without realizing, sticks out his tongue, slowly bringing the blade to it. Sam's heart is in this throat and he launches himself at Dean, tackles his brother and knocks the damn thing out of his hand.

"What the hell are you doing?" He's shouting, so fucking angry because Dean was going to cut off his tongue and he's gazing up like he has no idea why Sam's stopped him.

"I—" Dean blinks and his eyes are something dark and secretive, with some sadness there too, a yearning Sam's never seen before. "I was making sure his razor was sharp." Dean sounds smaller, obedient, for all the world like he did when he was fifteen and thought their father was God.

"Dean, what're you talking about? Dad hasn't used that in years."

Dean snaps back in an instant; grins shy and sheepish.

"Sorry, I must be more exhausted than I thought." He pushes Sam off him, shakes his head once, in an imitation of fighting sleep. "I'm going to go take a piss, then we'll go eat."

Sam picks the razor up off the floor, imagines the hot gush of his brother's blood, his severed tongue, and decides it's better for them both if he disposes of it on their way to dinner.

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